


Sheet

by radialarch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: codependent thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While John's gone at a conference, Sherlock sleeps in John's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheet

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://abundantlyqueer.tumblr.com/post/38165854340/afrogeekgoddess-is-it-odd-that-of-all-the), which suggests that the sheet Sherlock's wearing in ASiB is rather likely to be John's; written for Kitkat, who wanted sheet-smelling and codependence.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/38781531334/esterbrook-abundantlyqueer).

"Tea," Sherlock mutters, sprawled on the sofa, and goes back to thinking about dehydrating properties of salt.

When he opens his eyes some time later, the sitting room is dark and there's only a crumpled copy of _The Times_ on the coffee table, not the mug he'd expected. He frowns and sits up, tilting his head towards the stairs, but only muffled sounds from the street meet his ear. 

He pushes himself up from the sofa, nearly tripping on his tangled dressing gown, and wanders into the kitchen, and there it is, a skewed yellow square on the refrigerator. The light slanting in through the window is dim and far too orange, so Sherlock flicks the light on and squints at John's scribbled note.

> _Curry on the second shelf_

And then, in a slightly shakier hand (must have been added after the post-it was stuck to the door)

> _The ears better be gone when I get back :(_

Sherlock yanks the door open to find his container of ears (carefully salted) untouched and a covered bowl at eye level. He ignores them both and stands up with a huff, and the realisation hits him like--

Electricity, the shock of air rushing from his lungs, and the click-click-click of something falling into place--

_John is: not here in Dublin medical conference he wanted to go_

_away_

_but he'll be back tomorrow noon at the latest and he won't complain about his shoulder even though it always acts up when he's stressed and we'll_

_do something magnificent before everything is choking and grey_

and then Sherlock shakes his head to chase away these thoughts and _focus_.

Tea.

Sherlock fills the kettle and turns it on; then there's an intolerable wait. He sketches the structure of adrenaline and tannic acid into spilt sugar on the counter and paces. Examines the scrapes on the floor from the kitchen table. Ignores the ( _wrong so wrong_ ) emptiness from the upstairs bedroom.

The kettle clicks, and hot droplets splash onto Sherlock's wrists as he pours the water over the teabag. He shakes them off carelessly, concentrating instead on the smooth cascade of sugar into the drink, and then the brief swirl of milk (caseins, unravelling in the heat).

He stirs and takes a sip, and the tea is still somehow nothing like how it should taste.

Sherlock swallows down his frustration and sets the mug down with an unwarranted slam. A flicker of tea leaps over the side and stains a brown patch into the sugar.

_It's only tea, and there's nothing special about how John makes it -- the process, that's the only thing that matters and you've seen him do it a thousand times--_

_(Dublin why Dublin it's dull and boring and_ not here _and you don't even have me to point it out, John)_

And the world is a tangle of high-pitched whine that sinks into his teeth and it needs to stop and he can't breathe and _johnjohnjohn_ \--

John's room is dark and holds a touch of cold. Sherlock takes one hesitant step through the door, and then he doesn't ( _can't_ ) stop until he hits the crisply pressed sheet and keeps going, climbing onto the bed and burying his face in the pillow. It smells a bit like detergent and John's generic brand of soap, but most of all it reminds Sherlock of John:

\- crouching down with his weight solidly planted while Sherlock presses his hand against John's mouth and feels the shiver of quick breaths against his palm

\- barking at Sherlock to duck before springing forward, a growl in his throat and the barest flash of teeth

\- smiling a lazy, satisfied grin that Sherlock wants to lick off John's face before it smoothes into something milder and John laughs, breathlessly

so Sherlock pulls the sheet around his body and imagines John's head on this same pillow and John's body curving into the same dip in the mattress, imagines them both occupying the same space at the same time, filling the spaces between each other's atoms and the hollow of his chest cavity, and then maybe Sherlock will finally stop feeling this useless _need_ that makes his fingers tremble and his vision cracked.

He breathes in John's scent and crushes the stiff sheet in his fingers -- and the next thing he knows there's a hand in his hair.

"Hey," John says, softly, "you know, your bed's probably a lot more comfortable," but Sherlock blinks sleep from his eyes and drowns in the feeling of John's fingers against his skin and the tilt of the mattress and the warmth of John's body against his side, the utter rightness of it all.

"This was better," he mumbles, and adds, as an afterthought, "tea?"

"I just got home," John lets out a disbelieving breath but obligingly stands up. Sherlock listens to the footsteps as John goes down the stairs, and then--

"Oh, for--Sherlock, the ears!"

"Don't touch them," he shouts back, "they need another day," and there's a smile tugging at his mouth that he can't quite suppress.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this is not a healthy relationship.


End file.
